Disclaimer from AIgorepic.com:
This is a purely fictional adult fantasy story intended for entertainment purposes only. It contains extreme themes of consensual snuff, live butchering, gore, cannibalism fetish, and objectification. All characters are consenting adults. This is fantasy only and does not reflect or encourage any real-world actions. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
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Slaughtered with Devotion
My name is Harlan Voss. For seventeen years I have worked as a professional butcher in the rural outskirts of Eldridge, a quiet town in the Republic of Varenia. My slaughterhouse sits on a large plot of land surrounded by woods and empty fields. People bring their pigs, cattle, and occasionally goats here to be processed. I live alone in the small house attached to the main building. No wife, no family. Just me, the knives, the hooks, and the endless cycle of blood and meat.
The work is honest. I know exactly how to turn a living animal into clean, sellable cuts. One night, years into my routine, I found a hidden online community — a private fetish forum where people explored the darkest edges of human livestock fantasies. I lurked for a long time before I posted.
“Experienced butcher. Real facility. Real tools. Seeking someone who wants to cross the line completely — no safe words, no turning back, treated exactly like livestock. Serious inquiries only.”
Her first message came two days later.
SoutheastSow: I’m 23, from Southeast Asia. I’ve fantasized about this since I was sixteen. I don’t want roleplay. I want to become meat. Real meat. I want you to slaughter me like one of your pigs and sell my body together with the pork. I will obey every instruction. Please consider me.
We exchanged many long messages over the following weeks. Her dedication was intense and sincere.
Me: You understand that once you step into my killing floor, you are no longer a person? You will be livestock. I will stun, bleed, scald, scrape, gut, and butcher you exactly as I do with the pigs. Your meat will be mixed with theirs and sold.
SoutheastSow: Yes, Sir. That is what I crave more than anything. I have saved money, quit my job, and cut every tie. I want to feel the knife while I’m still conscious. I want to watch my own body being processed. I dream of my head being cut off while I’m alive so I can feel like a true animal being slaughtered.
Me: Describe how you see yourself.
SoutheastSow: I am a sow. A young female pig. My only purpose is to grow meat and then be killed for it. I get wet just thinking about the hook going through my ankles, hanging upside down, bleeding out while my heart is still beating. Please use me completely.
Me: Any limits?
SoutheastSow: None. I only ask one thing — cut my head off while I’m still alive and aware. I want to experience the final moments as livestock. After that, do whatever you normally do with the carcass. I want my flesh sold and eaten.
She sent several photos: a petite, smooth-skinned young woman with long dark hair, delicate features, small perky breasts, narrow waist, and rounded hips. Her body looked perfect for meat — tender and well-proportioned.
After nearly two months of daily messages, she wired the money for her one-way travel. She arrived on a humid evening.
I waited at the small regional airport. When she walked out, she wore a simple thin dress and sandals. She carried only a small backpack. Her eyes found mine immediately and she approached with a shy but excited smile.
“You’re really here,” I said quietly, taking her bag.
“Yes, Sir. I’m finally here. I’m so nervous… and so happy.”
“From now on, until you can’t speak anymore, you may call me Harlan. After that, you’re just meat. Understood?”
“Yes, Harlan. I understand. I’m ready to stop being human.”
During the drive to the slaughterhouse, she kept glancing at me, fingers twisting in her lap.
SoutheastSow: “I’ve imagined this drive so many times. Knowing I’m being taken to my death… it makes me so wet.”
Me: “Good. Because there’s no turning back. Once we start, I won’t stop even if you beg.”
SoutheastSow: “I won’t beg to stop. I might scream or cry from the pain, but that’s normal for livestock, right? Please don’t comfort me. Treat me like any other pig.”
At the slaughterhouse I gave her a full tour. I showed her the stunning pen, the bleeding rail, the large scalding tank, the scraping table, the evisceration area, the splitting saw, and the cold room where finished carcasses hung.
She touched everything with trembling reverence.
SoutheastSow: “It smells like death… and cleanliness. I love it.”
Me: “This is where you’ll die. That hook over there will hold you. That knife will open your throat. Those bins will hold your organs.”
SoutheastSow: “Thank you for showing me my future. Can I undress now?”
She stripped without hesitation, folding her clothes neatly and placing them on a bench. Naked, she looked even more delicate under the harsh fluorescent lights — smooth skin, dark nipples already hard, shaved pubic area.
I hosed her down with cold water the same way I wash incoming pigs. She gasped and shivered but spread her legs obediently so I could rinse every inch.
Me: “Last chance to back out.”
SoutheastSow: “No. I want this more than life. Please process me completely. Cut my head off while I can still feel and see. Let me experience being livestock until the end.”
I had her sign the final consent video on camera — clear, enthusiastic, repeated statements that she was offering herself willingly for slaughter and consumption. Then I led her to the killing area.
She knelt on the rubber mat, back straight, head tilted up. I picked up my favorite long sticking knife — razor sharp, slightly curved.
Me: “Any final words as a human girl?”
SoutheastSow: “Thank you, Harlan, for making my deepest dream come true. I’ve wanted to be a slaughtered sow for so long. Cut me deep. Bleed me like a proper pig. I’m ready.”
I grabbed her thick hair, pulled her head back firmly, and pressed the blade against her soft throat.
“Take a deep breath, sow.”
She inhaled shakily, eyes wide and shining with tears of joy.
I slashed hard — a deep, clean cut from left to right. The blade severed both carotid arteries and her windpipe in one practiced motion. Hot, bright arterial blood exploded outward in powerful jets, spraying across her breasts, belly, and thighs. She gurgled loudly, eyes bulging in shock and ecstasy. Her hands twitched upward but she forced them down again, submitting completely.
“Ghh… good… pig…” she managed to bubble through the blood pouring from her mouth and neck. Her body jerked violently, legs kicking, urine trickling down her thighs as her nervous system reacted.
I held her upright, watching her face. She was still conscious, staring at me with fading but blissful eyes. Blood continued pumping out in weakening spurts.
Before she lost awareness, I moved the knife behind her neck and began sawing through the spine with strong, deliberate strokes. On the third cut, her head separated completely. Her eyes blinked once more, mouth opening silently, then her face relaxed into a strange, peaceful expression as her head hung limp in my hand.
Her decapitated body convulsed for several seconds, then went still, hanging from my grip by the hair.
“Perfect,” I whispered.
I hoisted the warm, bleeding carcass by both ankles using the overhead rail and chain hoist. Blood poured freely from the neck stump into the drain trough below. I left her hanging for a full twenty minutes until the flow became a slow drip.
Next, I lowered her into the scalding tank at 60°C for several minutes to loosen the skin. When I pulled her out, I used the bell scraper to remove all hair and outer skin layer. Her body emerged smooth, pale pink, and glistening — just like a dressed hog.
I laid her on the stainless steel table. With practiced cuts I opened her from sternum to pelvis, carefully removing the internal organs one by one: heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, intestines. I set the prime organs aside. Then I split the pelvis with the saw, opened the ribcage, and used the electric splitting saw to divide her neatly down the middle into two sides.
I trimmed the hams, shoulders, belly, loin, and ribs exactly as I do with premium pigs. Her meat was tender, well-marbled with just enough fat. I packaged choice cuts with generic “Premium Young Pork” labels and mixed everything into the normal inventory.
By the next morning, her carcass hung chilled beside two large hogs I had slaughtered earlier. Within days, regular customers would buy and eat her meat without ever knowing.
That night I sat in my office, her severed head resting cleanly on a tray in front of me, eyes closed in final peace. I raised a glass of strong local liquor.
“To the best sow that ever walked into my slaughterhouse.”
She had finally become exactly what she always dreamed of being — nothing more than meat.
End.
